


Kindness Masked as Boredom

by Jinklo



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, Generally not cheerful, Justine (Penny Dreadful) - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts, minor spoilers for the aforementioned character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 06:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11961276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinklo/pseuds/Jinklo
Summary: 'I can't do this anymore' Dorian once thought to himself, when he still had some semblance of a soul. Of course, that was centuries ago, and he's still here.S3:E9





	Kindness Masked as Boredom

**Author's Note:**

> I like taking fanfic ideas out of really minuscule things. For example the two seconds we see Dorian Gray's hand trembling after he kills Justine. That was the inspiration. Just those two seconds.  
> Enjoy!

The girl has more dignity than he has had for centuries. She would rather die than be degraded for the rest of her life. He imagines it would be like letting a blind person see for only a _moment_ , and then telling them, "No, you can never have that again." She has tasted freedom, and she can never go back. So she chooses her only other alternative. A fixed end to her pain. And she holds her head high. Pretends not to be afraid

Dorion can respect that.  
So he kisses Justine softly, and snaps her neck with gentle swiftness.  
She slumps in his arms. He notices his fingers trembling. He clenches his hand into a fist and reminds himself that it was a kindness, but that doesn't stop the trembling. Because it isn't that he wishes he hadn't killed her, it's that he's _jealous_.  
He remembers how long ago he had been afraid of death, before all this. So far back he's almost forgotten. And even now, after so long being immortal, the concept of death is the only thing that brings any meaning to his 'life'. So he goes to the extremes. Death fascinates him as it terrifies him. He kills, sometimes pretending to be killed, revels in the blood and gore that will never tarnish his body for long. It's a slap in death's face, watching the abyss stare straight back at him, and saying: 'you have no power over me!'. Because no matter what happens, no matter how far gone he _looks_ , Dorian can simply run back to his painting, and become blessedly, ~~horrifically, cursedly~~ , _whole_ again.   
When he comes to look at his painting sometimes, he takes a moment to remind himself that he is the one in control. But all looking at that twisted reflection does is remind him of what he truly is, and what he can never have. Peace. Or hope.

It turns out death still has power over him. 

  
'I can't do this anymore' he once thought to himself, when he still had some semblance of a soul. Of course, that was centuries ago, and he's still here.

Ennui is his eternal enemy. Everything else he can conquer, but boredom is something he can never defeat for long. Aimless, he has wandered the millennia, never truly living, and surely never dying. Always ever wishing for what this girl held so effortlessly in her tear stained eyes and iron will. Conviction. Strength.  
She had tasted freedom, and could never go back.  
But she had an escape. He doesn't. He has tasted– No. He has  _feasted_  on this poisonous immortality for so long that the only thing human about him anymore is his ability to put on a mask and lie to himself that it's real. And still, he is unable, no matter how he abhors this existence, to ever escape. To die.  
So he grows cold, and unfeeling, because he can't be hurt, again and again, and _again_ , like this. He can't watch any more of his children die in his arms of old age, or lovers, or friends. He has no friends now. Can't even remember what trust feels like. The only constant in his life is the painting that perpetuates his suffering. It is the one thing in the world he truly has any emotion left for. And the emotion is _hatred._

Sometimes he wishes he could forget, because maybe then he could start over. But alas, he's been blessed with a memory that's as enduring as himself. Every life he's ended, every love gone wrong, every single blood soaked year of his life is painted as clear and real in his recollections as the brush strokes that make up his wretched painting.  
So he holds the dead girl a moment longer, and prays to an unknown entity that she, not him, may not yet have given up believing in, 'Let her find the peace that I never will.'

And then he adds, because he can't help it, and can't stand how hopeless and crazy and desperate he is after all this time,  
'But please. If there is any mercy at all left in this world.  _Please_. Let me _die_.'

**Author's Note:**

> so that was cheerful. I was NOT planning on that level of angst. It got away from me. Ah well. Hope u liked it ^u^


End file.
